The corridor outside Merrick's chambers was draped in velvet shadows. Only a few sconces flickered, casting an amber glow against the carved stone walls. The air held a stillness that came only with the earliest hush before dusk. From within the chamber, silence reigned, save for the slow and steady rhythm of a woman's breathing.
Caralee had finally succumbed to sleep.
Merrick shut the door with a whisper of movement, his fingers brushing the iron handle as it latched into place behind him. He stood for a moment, gazing at the closed wood, the faint echo of her breathing still thrumming in his mind like a distant drum. Only then did he turn, his expression composed but heavy with the weight of too many thoughts.
Renauld waited a short distance down the hall. The man hadn't had the chance to get changed out of his sleep attire, dressed in a soft linen tunic with his hair disheveled, and tied back. Still, his shoulders were squared, and his bearing was one of a soldier standing at attention—awaiting judgment.
Merrick approached him with measured steps.
Renauld bowed his head low. "My lord."
Instead of replying immediately, Merrick extended his hand. There was a pause, just long enough to be noticed, before Renauld accepted it.
Their palms met, and Merrick's grip was firm. "Thank you for aiding her this evening. You have my gratitude."
"It is an honor," Renauld replied sincerely, "to care for the young princess in any way I am able. Always."
Merrick held his gaze for a breath longer than necessary.
"Yes… About that," he said.
The shift in tone was not overt, but it was enough. Renauld's body tensed subtly, his jaw setting, his brows lifting just a hair. The soldier in him recognized the prelude to inquiry, and more—perhaps, to challenge.
"…Yes, my lord?" Renauld asked cautiously.
Merrick studied him as one might regard a chessboard. "I know you've shown an interest in becoming her bloodbound. Her dedicated feeder."
A blush bloomed high on Renauld's cheeks, and for a moment he looked as young as Caralee herself. But he didn't falter. "I am honored to be of service to Your Majesty in any capacity that you see fit," he said, voice composed. "If that is one such way, I accept the duty freely."
Merrick didn't answer at first. Instead, he turned slightly, glancing out the high arched window lining the corridor. Through its stained glass, he could see the darkened violet sky of approaching dawn.
"Renauld," he began at last, quietly but clearly, "avoiding what happened today— ensuring it never happens again— is something I intend to guarantee. There are difficult days on the horizon. More than you can imagine."
He turned back to face him. "The bond of a feeder is a tradition older than most living creatures in this castle. It is sacred. It is binding."
Renauld nodded. "I understand."
"No," Merrick said, gently but firmly, "I don't believe you do. Not fully."
He stepped closer, shadows gathering at his shoulders like the cloak of night itself.
"To be a feeder is to bind your very life to hers. Should she fall, you will fall. The bond is absolute. It is not something you sever. Not without cost. The moment the bond is sealed, your pulse belongs to her. Your purpose, your strength, even your death—become extensions of her will."
Renauld nodded again, slower this time, his expression sharpening with gravity. "I accept this."
Merrick's eyes narrowed slightly. "You will feel her thirst. Even when she sleeps. You will feel her hunger gnawing at the edge of your own stomach. Her rage, her sorrow— her temptations. At times, you may not know where your emotion ends and hers begins."
Renauld's mouth was tight, but he nodded once more, the movement firm.
A quiet passed between them like the hush before a storm. Merrick's face was unreadable for a time. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice to a razor-thin line.
"There's only one thing I need to know before I allow this," he said. "And I suggest you answer with nothing but the truth."
Renauld held his breath.
"Do you have hopes for her in any way— other than in service?" Merrick's voice was quiet, yet the threat behind it was unmistakable. "Are you prepared to vow your life to her, fully and irrevocably? And are your intentions genuine, without ambition? Because you know the consequence should you be dishonest."
Renauld's mouth opened slightly, but no sound came. He swallowed hard. The weight of the question was not lost on him.
He exhaled once, deeply, then lifted his chin. "The consequence would be a failed bonding," he said. "And my death."
Merrick didn't blink. "Correct."
Silence again. And then—
Renauld drew in a breath, as if inhaling courage. "I only want to see her happy, my lord," he said.
He looked Merrick in the eye then—no longer a subject addressing his king, but a man speaking from the rawest part of his soul.
"I—" He faltered, then steadied. "I love her."
A twitch of Merrick's brow. Nothing more.
"But not in the way a man covets a woman. It is not possessive. It is reverent. I love her as one might love something— rare. Something wild. An exotic bird with dazzling plumage—whose song is too beautiful for cages. I would fight for her safety, protect her habitat, slay those who seek to bind her wings or silence her voice."
His jaw clenched as emotion shimmered in his eyes.
"But I do not wish to claim her."
The words hung in the air like incense.
Merrick studied him. Every word. Every blink. Every twitch of breath. Then, slowly, he gave a single, firm nod.
"Alright then."
Renauld's shoulders sagged, imperceptibly.
"I will make the necessary arrangements," Merrick continued. "We will not wait. She's had enough turmoil. The ritual will take place this evening, once she's rested. Go now. Prepare yourself."
Renauld bowed deeply, nearly to the floor. "Thank you, my king."
With a final glance, he turned and strode down the corridor. His back was straight, his pace deliberate.
Merrick stood there for a moment, breathing in the quiet.
Jealousy curled in his chest—hot and irrational. It was foolish, he knew. A primal thing, a possessive tremor that stirred at the thought of another man being bound to her. It was absurd. He was her sire. Her king. Nothing could ever eclipse that bond. Still, the image of Renauld holding her as she fed turned his stomach.
But this was tradition. Sacred. And tradition must prevail. The bond between feeder and host was protective, biological, designed to ensure a vampire's needs were met without the chaos of ungoverned hunger.
No feeder could ever marry, sire, or be soulbound to their host.
There was no threat. Only loyalty. Only service.
And yet—
He pushed the thought aside.
Returning to his chambers, Merrick opened the door quietly and stepped inside.
The room was still dim, the curtains drawn tight. Caralee lay in his bed, the sheets pulled high, her breath soft and rhythmic. Her red curls tumbled like flame across the pillow, her lashes resting in serene fans against her cheeks.
He crossed the room, shrugging off his coat, and climbed onto the bed beside her. Gently, he pulled her close, one arm draped around her slender waist.
She did not stir.
He watched her in silence, tracing a finger down the side of her cheek. Then brushing her hair from her face. Then pressing a kiss to her temple.
For the first time in what felt like centuries, Merrick allowed himself to relax. To simply hold her. To let her breathe, gentle and steady, lull him into peace.
He stayed there, still as stone, until the moon dipped low.
When he finally rose, he did so without waking her. His movements were careful, each step a whisper. He spoke with her attendants, instructing them to let her sleep but to prepare her attire and chamber for the ritual to come. Then he retreated to his study.
There were letters to write. Orders to sign. Arrangements to be finalized.
The ritual required them to be physically— intimate. The idea caused rage to begin to bubble to the surface. He paused, squeezing his eyes closed, but that only made it worse. He only saw visions there, images of her porcelain skin, bare, naked and in the hands of her feeder, Renauld. His hands sliding across her delicate flesh. Merrick clenched his fist, slamming it down on the desk and causing the ink pot to topple over.
He went to turn the entire desk over in frustration, but he froze, taking a deep breath. His mind was suddenly flooded with a different vision. With the memory of her standing in front of him, naked and vulnerable. He exhaled. Recalling her eyes wandering over his body, his shoulders slumped as the rage dissipated. He thought about how she lingered upon his thickness, and the look of ravenous desire she had in her eyes. He sank back into his chair.
He then recalled the exertion of her will. Her will manifested on the world around her. She could have manifested reality in any way she wished. Yet, she had wanted only one thing at that moment. Him. She had only wanted him. He smiled softly to himself. And somewhere in the quiet hum of duty and devotion, Merrick made peace with the jealousy in his chest.
Tonight, Caralee would be joined with Renauld, they would perform sacred acts and seal their bond, and she would to some degree, be protected from now on.
Bound.
Fed.
And perhaps, finally— understood.